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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25944973">leave naught behind</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyduckgreygoose/pseuds/greyduckgreygoose'>greyduckgreygoose</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Public Claiming, Stockholm Syndrome</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:53:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,509</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25944973</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyduckgreygoose/pseuds/greyduckgreygoose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>What did Witchers do with the children they claimed? Did they make their fingers into sausages and liver into gravy like the folktales said? Did they make lackeys and slaves of them? Surely they would not make them into Witchers. Jaskier was weak of body and fragile of heart. He would not survive such training.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>502</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>leave naught behind</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The spring Jaskier was born, a Witcher had done a boon for his village. When the local Lord, Jaskier’s father, had not the coin he promised, the Witcher vowed to return another winter to claim his payment. </p><p>It took him eighteen. </p><p>Jaskier remembered the commotion in the Great Hall when the Witcher rode through the gates, so dark and formidable-looking that none dared to stand in his way. It had been so long that his vow had passed into legend, a fairy story for parents to scare their children to sleep with. None had expected him to come back to collect. </p><p>Jaskier had stepped outside in curiosity, the cold flakes of winter falling softly in his hair and the wind making him shiver in this thin silks. He was coltish and foolish, fain to have a peek at this legendary creature, to collect a story to share with his university friends later. </p><p>The Witcher stood in the courtyard, unconcerned with the armed town guard or the threats Jaskier’s father was spitting in his direction. Until this moment, Jaskier had seen his Lord as a fearsome, indomitable force. Next to the Witcher, however, he looked small, old and toothless in his empty finery. </p><p>Then the Witcher’s yellow eyes had fallen on Jaskier, making his heart leap like an animal pinned under an arrow’s barb.</p><p>“Not him,” Jaskier’s father pled. Coins, gathered too late, fell from his fingers, clattering onto the ground. </p><p>--</p><p>What did Witchers do with the children they claimed? Did they make their fingers into sausages and liver into gravy like the folktales said? Did they make lackeys and slaves of them? Surely they would not make them into Witchers. Jaskier was weak of body and fragile of heart. He would not survive such training. </p><p>The Witcher had no answer for him, remaining grimly silent as he sat atop the horse, leaving Jaskier to trot to keep pace, his wrists bound by rope to the saddle. Only when Jaskier began limping from blisters, slowing them both down, did the Witcher haul him astride. </p><p>“I will not run,” Jaskier sniffled, his breath puffing white from his mouth. “I am a man of my word. Besides, I have nowhere else to go.” </p><p>This, the Witcher seemed to find amusing, snorting warmly in Jaskier’s ear. But he cut the rope from Jaskier’s wrists, and rubbed his thumb across the sore skin apologetically. </p><p>The ride was long and rocky, the winter deepening as they traveled. Jaskier stiffened the first night the Witcher unpacked a single bedroll for the both of them, but he made no violence, merely fit Jaskier in the warm crescent of his body and immediately dropped to sleep, his arm like an iron band around Jaskier’s waist. </p><p>Even when Jaskier awoke with a hard cock digging into his back, the Witcher merely rolled away, and they resumed travel without a word. </p><p>In time, Jaskier grew strangely comfortable with the Witcher, grew used to filling their long silences with chatter, answering on his behalf as he glowered. The Witcher was kind in small ways, cruel in others. But even his cruelty seemed borne of a lack of concern or knowledge of human mores rather than maliciousness. </p><p>When Jaskier began to take ill on the road, the Witcher bartered for a rough wool cloak from a peasant. It was a great deal warmer than Jaskier’s fashionable cape had been, though itchy and smelling of sheep. </p><p>His entire vocalization seemed to consist of grunts and the word <i>no</i>, and he was more amenable to shoving Jaskier towards or away from the direction of his choosing instead of asking. </p><p>He seemed surprised Jaskier could sing. </p><p>“I could be even more more entertaining, had you allowed me to bring my lute,” Jaskier said, but he was pleased that his singing seemed to soften the set of the Witcher’s shoulders, smooth the grimace from his face, if only for a while. </p><p>It was almost enough for Jaskier to forget that he had been bartered and claimed like the cloak on his back. </p><p>--</p><p>The Witcher called this <i>Kaer Morhen</i>, a stronghold as gloomy and imposing as its name. Jaskier shrank back against the Witcher’s chest as they approached its gates, the fortress looming darkly against the winter landscape. </p><p>They pushed into the great hall with little fanfare, the warmth making Jaskier’s numb cheeks sting. The room was full of rough men in leathers and furs, covered in scars and bristling with knives. Witchers, all. They stared at Jaskier as he passed with predator eyes. </p><p>His Witcher pulled him close, bared teeth at those who dared get too familiar. There were factions, Jaskier gleaned, that jibed and snapped at each other like pups at play, but with the undercurrent of real violence. Cats and Vipers, Griffins and Manticores. They seemed equal parts beast and human. </p><p>His Witcher’s clan greeted him warmly, called him <i>Geralt</i> and were allowed to sniff and prod at Jaskier until he yelped piteously and his Witcher pulled him onto the bench next to him, half onto his lap. </p><p>“Here,” his Witcher said, one of only a handful of words he had graced Jaskier with since they began their acquaintance. He pressed a clay vial to Jaskier’s palm, warm from where it had been resting against his skin. </p><p>“What is it?” Jaskier asked, but of course he received no answer. Not wishing to try his Witcher’s patience in a room full of threat, Jaskier cautiously opened the vial and tipped it into his mouth, finding, to his surprise, the substance was sweet and viscous like honey. </p><p>Though the clandestine matters of a Witcher gathering would have been more than fodder for Jaskier’s ravenous curiosity, he soon found himself unable to hold the thread of conversation, half-drowsing against his Witcher’s shoulder. Even when he was shaken awake, Jaskier moved as if he were swimming through a warm sea, pliant and obedient as he was led by a hand on his nape to the center of the room, a sacrificial lamb to the altar. </p><p>“Look only at me,” his Witcher said roughly, pulling off Jaskier’s clothes until he was naked as a babe, shivering as his toes curled against the icy stone floor. But he obeyed his Witcher, holding his gaze though the stares of hundreds of cold, yellow eyes made his skin heat and his heart race.</p><p>His Witcher lifted him and laid him atop a pile of furs, Jaskier gasping as his legs were forcibly parted. </p><p>“I’ve never ...” he shook his head. A handful of times with women, but nothing but hands and mouths with other men. Fumbling, adolescent games. </p><p>His Witcher’s eyes flashed. He rubbed a hand down Jaskier’s side like he was quieting a horse, then pressed a slick finger into the clench of Jaskier’s virgin ass. Jaskier gasped and the room became loud, hungry. Comments on his quivering thighs and swollen lips, how they would like to tear him apart and fuck him to tears. Jaskier released a frightened whine, his head falling to the side as his gaze skittered around the room. </p><p>With an iron grip on his jaw, his Witcher turned his face until their gazes locked once more. “On me,” he said, stepping between Jaskier’s spread thighs, fisting his cock. </p><p>It was thick, oh, and it was beautiful. Jaskier shivered in fear and anticipation as his Witcher aligned his cock head with Jaskier’s entrance and pressed in. The initial burn made Jaskier flinch, his cries swallowed by his Witcher’s mouth as he pressed their bodies together. Then all Jaskier could feel was heat, the soft rub of fur against his back, and his Witcher’s cock deep inside of him, pounding against that part that made everything grow bright and brittle and splinter into a thousand starbursts. </p><p>Jaskier pushed himself up on his elbows, realizing that he had come all over himself, that his mouth was open and he was panting like a dog. Geralt pulled out of his ass, still hard, and Jaskier whined at the feeling of <i>emptiness</i>. With a few pulls of his cock, Geralt splashed his warm come across Jaskier’s chest. </p><p>Marking him. </p><p>This seemed to have concluded the fanfare. Jaskier could hear the sounds of footsteps leaving the great hall, men rowdy for brothels or paramours stashed in other rooms of the castle. He watched the tension drain from his Witcher’s shoulders, and was even gifted with a slow, lazy smile as he dragged his fingers through the mess on Jaskier’s chest and slipped them one by one into Jaskier’s slick, needy mouth. </p><p>--</p><p>His Witcher kept Jaskier in his room for the rest of winter, feeding him bites of honeyed bread and spiced meat from his own hand, fucking him until they were both sweat-slick and exhausted, until there was not a bit of Jaskier left unclaimed. </p><p>In the Spring, Geralt presented him with a lute, the finest the Jaskier had ever seen. It was elven, likely a war trophy. </p><p>“A wedding present,” Geralt said gruffly, and Jaskier knew that he was taken for good.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My <a href="https://greyduckgreygoose.tumblr.com/tagged/myfic">tumblr</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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